


Lie Back and Think of Molko

by evilmaniclaugh



Series: The Molko Diaries [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gender Confusion, M/M, Multi, musketeers modern au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:54:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2812733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another part in the learning curve of  modern day, sexually repressed, drunk!Athos with guy liner.</p><p>In this episode, Aramis takes the boys on a tour of London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lie Back and Think of Molko

“Athos, have we done something to upset you?” asks Porthos. 

Athos is sitting on the couch, huddled up into a corner as he recovers from his third huge drinking session of the week, and it’s only Wednesday. He looks at Porthos guardedly then goes back to his newspaper with a swift shake of the head.

It’s been two months since they shared that outlandish bed in his flat. Two months since they shared any bed, full stop, and Porthos misses the cuddles and the displays of non verbal affection. “Come here then.” He pats his knee. “Please,” he says. “I need some love, even if you don’t.” He’s pretty convinced, though, that Athos does too. Getting plastered every night of the week isn’t a good sign.

Athos looks warily across the divide of the sofa then, with a frown, edges sideways until he’s in close contact.

“That’s better.” Stretching out, Porthos pulls at Athos until he’s half lying on him, then clamps an arm around to hold him in place. “Now, what have we done wrong?”

Athos lets out a sigh. “Nothing, honestly.” He sighs again. “Being me is problematic, so I’ve decided to become more ordinary.”

“By hiding your feelings in three bottles of wine a night? Liver disease isn’t the answer, babe.” Porthos skates his hand across Athos’ back,’ enjoying the response he gets. That twitch of muscle and push against his hand is always a quiet source of pleasure for him.

“Come on, you two, get your shoes on,” says a voice from the doorway. “I’m going to take you on a tour of _ordinary_.”

“Where’ve you been?” Porthos turns to look over his shoulder and smiles at Aramis. He misses him horribly when he’s not around, and he’s been gone for far too long.

“The private party at the Bourbon residence turned out to be a lot more private than I was expecting.” Aramis grins. “Just me, them and an indecent amount of luxury. It was hedonism at its most hedonistic.” He jumps into the middle of the scrum. “See, precious boy?” He sucks love bites onto Athos’ neck, eliciting a shudder of horror in response. “You’re positively Victorian compared to them.”

*

Their tour of _ordinary_ , with Aramis as host, begins in the big Ann Summers on Oxford Street. The window is full of girl mannequins wearing pretty pastel lingerie and Porthos panics thinking that Aramis has got this horribly wrong. He slips an arm around Athos, shoving a hand into the back pocket of those ludicrously tight PVC jeans. "Okay, babe?"

Athos glances up at him. He leans into Porthos' side and the corner of his mouth tips upward.

"Tell me if you're not and we'll go," promises Porthos as Aramis leads them inside the brightly lit premises.

"The housewife's paradise," says Aramis, waving at the racks of naughty knicks with a flourish. "You couldn't get more suburban if you tried."

"So?" growls Porthos. Is he trying to imply that Athos' gender confusion can be solved by purchasing a pair of frilly panties and a basque? Christ, he isn't getting this at all.

Aramis stares pointedly at him for a moment. "Give me a chance to explain, Porthos," he says and then he turns and leads them further into the shop.

Underwear gives way to fantasy dress up, the strangest of all being the full rubber gimp outfit, standing proud next to a mannequin wearing a crotchless naval uniform. The main body of the room is filled with ranks of sex toys and other equipment.

"What do you think about this?" says Aramis, wielding a plastic wrapped dildo at them as if it were a sword.

Porthos cringes. That thing is two feet long and as thick as the top of his arm. He isn't keen on having anything up his arse, so perhaps he isn't the best judge, but a quick look at Athos' face tells him that he isn't way off the mark.

With Aramis busy filling up a shopping basket, the other two wander over to look at the selection of porn that's on offer here. It isn't explicit, but neither is it all that conventional in nature. 

"Ouch," sniggers Athos as he peers in horror at a picture of a man with thousands of clothes pegs attached to every part of his naked body. "I'll wait outside."

"I'll join you," says Porthos, hurrying after him. For the first time ever he's been turned off by sex. "Well that was a weird experience." He does a full body shudder to rid himself of the images.

"That's exactly what sex is for me," says Athos, quirking an eyebrow. "A weird experience. Is having sex with me a bit like that too?"

This is an honest question. Athos isn't fishing for compliments, so Porthos takes his time to think of the honest answer. "Sex with you is weirdly beautiful," he says. "I shiver when you touch me. I look forward to a lot more of it."

"So do I," says Athos, his bracelets jangling as his hand moves up to rest on Porthos' shoulder. 

This is an intimate moment, thinks Porthos.

"Here you are," says Aramis, coming out to meet them, carrying a bag filled with goodies.

"What the fuck have you got there?" asks Porthos. Athos' hand slides away from his shoulder and he misses it when it's gone.

"Presents for my king and queen," smiles Aramis. "It's my turn to indulge them."

Porthos hopes, both selfishly and out of concern, that his best friend isn't delving too deep into this marriage.

"By the way, how were you two done so quickly?" continues Aramis. It's an Aladdin's Cave of fun in there."

"Not really our thing." Porthos shrugs and Athos nods in agreement.

Aramis grins and hooks a boisterous arm around Athos' neck. "Then my lesson on life is working. We all have different tastes and desires. We all have secret pleasure centres. Yet, this is normal." He takes Porthos and Athos by the hand. "We've visited the land of the chocolate penis, now let's head south."

Just a few streets away, Soho is bustling with tourists. When Athos is waylaid by a friend at the entrance to a private club, the two men chattering away to each other in French, Porthos grabs the opportunity to have a quiet word with Aramis.

"What's this about?" he asks.

"Athos has a warped idea of normal,” says Aramis. “He's not only fetishing Brian Molko, he's fetishing his own perceived flaws. I want him to see that there’s no such thing as ordinary."

Porthos shrugs his shoulders again. He supposes it makes sense if you're reading gender studies and psychology. Unfortunately, he’s a history student and, as such, is well out of his depth. He knows two simple facts. He likes Aramis and he likes Athos. He likes both of them a lot, especially when they’re all together.

He watches Athos kiss his friend goodbye, twice on each cheek, and grins at him when he rejoins them. “So, you do like French kissing?”

“French kissing is fine.” Athos smirks. “It’s English kissing I’m not fond of. Altogether too wet.”

“Then, you’ve been kissed by the wrong people,” says Aramis. “One day we’ll show you how it’s done.”

“And you’ll find out what you’ve been missing,” growls Porthos. He’s more turned on by the idea of snogging Athos than he was from all the porn in Ann Summers.

“i haven't been kissed by anyone,” says Athos. “I just don’t like the idea of it.” He trembles and Porthos picks up on it.

“Here we are,” says Aramis, turning down one of the small courts off Berwick Street and stopping half way along. “My friend Adele works here. It’s a proper old fashioned peep show. No coins in slots. No students lying on their backs and doing the splits in their knickers. She’s promised me it’s a thrill.”

It’ll be a court of bloody miracles if it turns out to be that, thinks Porthos looking down a set of steps into the darkness of a cavernous basement. The adult entertainment licence is displayed in the entrance alongside a list of rules: no drinking, no drugs, no harassment of the workers. One customer per booth. Please make sure the premises are in a sanitary condition when you leave.

“Aramis?” Porthos pleads. He doesn’t want to sit on his own watching a stranger diddle herself.

Aramis is already halfway down the stairs and turns to look back at the with an encouraging smile. “Come on, people. Let’s have a peep.”

Porthos glances at Athos and with a mutual look of unadulterated unenthusiasm they follow their friend down to the murky depths, where they find him chatting up a pretty red head who’s sitting behind the glass screen of a kiosk.

“Are you safe from stray seagulling in there?” laughs Aramis.

“Safe-ish,” says the girl. “You want three booths?”

“We want one booth,” says Aramis. “We’re here for a laugh.”

“I’ll put you down as a special client,” says Adele. “It’ll cost though.”

“I have money,” says Athos, handing over a fold of notes, some of which are pink.

“I’ll turn the cameras off in number five,” says Adele, tucking most of the money into her handbag. “Don’t misbehave too much, or I’ll lose my job.”

Aramis blows her a kiss. “Like I said, we’re just here for a laugh.”

The booth is less disgusting than it might have been. It seems clean enough and if it weren’t for the dispenser of paper towels on the wall then it could have been any old waiting room.

A screen opens to show them a view of an empty bedroom with nothing out of the ordinary in there, except for a rack of sex toys. A dark haired girl enters the room, fully dressed, wandering over and switching on the CD player. She begins to gyrate and slowly, piece by piece, her clothing is removed.

“What a boring job,” says Aramis.

“What a boring show.” Porthos grins at him.

Athos however is transfixed. It could be Brian Molko in there, from the look on his face and Porthos watches the stripper more carefully to see what he’s missing.

The girl is now down to a basque, stockings and thong. She lies on the bed, and with a distinct lack of arousal on her face, slides down her knickers and begins to stroke herself, circling her clit with a slicked forefinger.

This might be the most unprepossessing exhibition ever, but something about it is working for Porthos. With his cock hardening in his boxers, he has a private hate session with his libido which is unpredictable and infuriating. Next to him, Aramis hitches in a breath and Porthos sneaks a look across to see that he’s in a similar state of arousal. They stare at each other for a moment too long.

Why the hell not, thinks Porthos and unzips. They’ve paid for the privilege of unlimited time in here and as many paper towels as they might need. If Athos gets off on this then at least they’ve learned something today. With his cock all greedy and hot in his hand, he watches Aramis with a lot more interest than he does the show that’s going on behind the glass. 

Athos turns to look at them. He’s fully clothed and unaroused, but his eyes are bright with exhilaration. “I could do that,” he says.

“Go on then,” says Porthos. His mouth is dry and his voice catches in his throat. He wants to see Athos make himself come. He needs it. “It’s allowed, baby. I’d love to watch you have a wank.”

“We both would,” says Aramis, wetting his palm and pulling himself with long, firm strokes.

“Not that,” says Athos, sparkling more than his jewellery. “What she’s doing. I could do that.”

Athos has hijacked the tour and diverted it to the outer reaches of _ordinary_ and, with unrestrained excitement, they leave the peep show and head back home to play.

* 

Porthos is camped out on the sofa with Aramis. They have beers in hand and several more on the table before them. The lights are low, the music’s on and they’re expecting a cliché, but then this is Athos and when has he ever been predictable? 

For sure, the man’s drunk. You’d have to be drunk to adopt the blasé attitude of the stultified sex worker at a peep show so perfectly, and Athos has it down pat. Strolling across the room, he sits on the chair that he’s placed a couple of metres in front of the sofa then yawns like a well fed lion. Picking up a bottle of Mouton from the floor next to him, he takes a pull and then stands up and turns his back to his audience, unfastening his dress pants and shimmying lazily out of them.

Both Porthos and Aramis agreed beforehand that it’s bound to be suspenders and stockings. It’s what Porthos would wear if he were doing this, it’s what he’s worn in private just to see how it feels, but Athos, as always, is full of surprises. 

The fuzzy cropped sweater, when teamed with simple black trousers, seemed like nothing, but now, with its hemline barely skirting Athos’ waist, it’s been transformed. The plain pair of white cotton panties hide everything and nothing at the same time. Athos’ legs are shaved smooth to perfection and he’s wearing a pair of thigh length ribbed socks, one of them fallen down as if it belongs to a badly behaved schoolgirl. He has the regulation eyeliner on, but his face is exaggerated today with a hint of lip gloss and a swipe of mascara. Porthos is hard before the show has even begun.

The song changes in the background. Still Placebo of course. Who else would it be but Athos’ primary fixation? He leans back in the chair, legs spread to their widest, then licks the palm of his hand and presses it suggestively over his crotch.

“Fucking hell,” groans Aramis.

Porthos’ tongue is thick in his mouth, too heavy to utter anything. He watches though. He watches as if Athos is a charmer. Taking his eyes off the show for a second, he glances across at Aramis, who’s casually undoing his jeans, and raises both eyebrows.

Aramis raises his back. “We’re _supposed_ to get off on this, Porthos.”

“Jesus Christ, we’re broken.” Porthos shoves a hand down his jeans and curls a finger around his erection.

“I don’t think so,” says Aramis, pulling at his cock. “Far from it."

That disinterested look set firmly on his face, Athos now slides a hand inside his panties and Porthos sucks in a breath of _want_. He watches the outline of an erection develop, and wills Athos to slip his underwear down, just enough so they can see something, but the man is a born tease and instead he keeps up a steady stroke under the layer of cotton, whilst toying idly with his nipples.

By now, Aramis is openly wanking and Porthos slides his own zipper down, sneakily though, as if he's not allowed to be doing it. Athos is in a world of his own--aroused, drunk, lost to the beat of the music--and as he hikes up a leg, heel coming to rest on the seat of the chair, Porthos wonders what's next.

Reaching down, Athos has another swig of wine then wets his fingers with lube from a pump dispenser. Both hands are inside his pants now and as he begins, clearly, to finger himself, Porthos is lost and lets out an involuntary groan. 

"Okay?" murmurs Aramis.

"Dunno," says Porthos. "I think so. I can't even..." He looks down at his lap to see that he's pulling at his cock with firm strokes. He wasn't even aware that he was doing so and, leaning forward, he takes a mouthful of beer to calm himself down. His hand is shaking when he replaces the bottle on the table.

"I know," says Aramis. "That boy is too much." Then he grins. "Or maybe he's exactly right." He slides in closer to Porthos. "Want to switch?" 

Without waiting for an answer, his fingers slot into place around the base of Porthos' erection and Porthos reaches out to his left. They haven't done it like this since they were freshers, when a hangover meant staying in bed, watching filth and wanking each other off.

"This is better than any porno," Porthos says in a dirty undertone. 

Finally, Athos takes off those panties and, leaving them hanging suggestively around his raised ankle, he leans over, reaching into a bag and taking out a thick, flesh coloured dildo.

"I am going to die," mutters Porthos, his hand gripping Aramis' dick until he squeaks. "Sorry, bud."

They watch, silent now except for the heavy breathing, as Athos shifts around in the chair, both knees raised up now as he positions the knob ready. The boat necked sweater is hanging off a shoulder, low enough to show a hint of nipple, his eyeliner is a sweaty smudge and just for a moment he looks at them, licking glossed lips which curve into a smirk.

"The little bitch," moans Aramis. "I swear this is his day job."

Porthos doesn't answer. He's watching that shaft disappear, inch by inch, inside Athos' body until there's nothing to see but a set of moulded balls. He's watching Athos slide his hand at a leisurely pace up and down, up and down, up and down. Blood thunders, everything aches and his head is full of words. "Can we fuck you?” he gasps. “I need my cock in you. I need my cock in your cunt."

Athos stops what he’s doing and looks up at them, ever so slowly, bashful despite the eight inch dong that's slipping out of his arse. The room is thick with sex, heavy with rhythm, and when he nods, just once, there's a scramble and then a maul of bodies.

It's anything but elegant. Porthos is on the floor leaning against the couch. He has his arm wrapped around Athos who's sitting half naked in his lap, keening as Aramis sucks him off.

"I need to fuck you," says Porthos, the sentence on repeat just like the CD.

Athos pants out a “yes,” followed by a “now,” squirming upwards to allow Porthos room to roll on a condom and, at the same time, shoving himself deep into Aramis' throat.

"Baby," stammers Porthos as he eases Athos onto his cock. "You're so hot. You’re so fucking tight." He sucks at Athos' neck, licks at his ear and says a thousand filthy words that should never be used.

Aramis climbs their bodies, rubbing himself off on a sticky, thick cock and, with Athos trapped between them, he kisses Porthos with such fire that Porthos heaves upward and comes with an intensity he's never experienced before. Heart rate returning to normal, he pets Athos with touches and pretty words, his eyes locked on tight to Aramis as he watches him race to orgasm. It's a beautiful sight.

"Did you come?" asks Porthos afterwards, his lips close to Athos' ear.

Athos shakes his head. "I can't," he admits wearily. "Probably too drunk," he says in a brighter tone of voice wearing a nearly there smile that fools no one. "Excuse me, gentlemen. I need a shower." He pushes them away from him in order to escape to the bathroom and it's a sad sight.

"We've fucked him up," says Aramis sorrowfully. "All the time I thought he was messing with our heads, and it turns out we were the ones screwing with him."

"No," says Porthos, getting up and peeling the wet condom from his softened dick. "Not happening. Come on. We have some unfucking to do."

Chucking the rubber in the kitchen bin on the way past, Porthos opens the bathroom door and, for the first time ever, he's glad of that busted bolt.

Athos is sitting hunched up at the tap end of the bath, water raining down on him. His arms are wrapped around himself and his forehead is pressed to his knees. He’s a sadder sight than ever.

"You're clean enough," says Aramis, turning off the shower as Porthos half drags, half carries Athos out of the tub.

As they dry him off with a towel that's got few enough marks on it to be considered student fresh, Athos looks up, his face smudged with make up. "I just want to be normal," he says plaintively.

Aramis wipes the smears from his eyes with a spit wet tissue and sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Why ever would you want something so mundane, when you're perfect the way you are?" he says, shaking his head in disbelief.

Porthos comes close to whimpering at how good Aramis is with words. His long arms and big body means he's much better at physicality and so he hugs them both for ages until Athos begins to shiver. "Can we take you to bed?" he asks in a low voice.

Exhausted and coming down off his drunk, Athos nods, and when they eventually settle around each other, like puppies in a basket, Porthos knows that the comfort is working when he can feel Athos hard against his thigh.

"Would you like me to try sucking you off?" he says gently, twirling tendrils of wet hair around his fingers. "You can lie back and think of Molko."

"Please," says Athos and for once he doesn't sound wary.

They reposition themselves with Athos lying in Aramis' arms and Porthos nestled under the covers, between Athos’ legs. He takes him into his mouth, laving rather than sucking, and smiles around a mouthful of cock as he listens to the purr of approval and a string of muffled words from above.

It’s slow and steady, above all unpressured, and when Athos reaches down and arches into Porthos, coming with a quiet sigh of delight, Porthos drinks every drop, working him down with slowing movements of his fist.

Joining the pile of bodies, Porthos licks his lips and nuzzles in, pressing one quick kiss to Athos’ cheek. “Thank you,” he says and can feel muscles contract into a smile.

With Athos now sleeping, Aramis slithers across on top of Porthos. “I think we made amends,” he says as they rut together, both of them still a fuzz of confusion and contentment.

“I think we did.” Porthos rests his hand on Athos’ shoulder, enjoying the feel of Aramis, writhing hot above him. The climb is steady, an orgasm tickles at his senses, and he silences the beginnings of it by dipping his tongue into Aramis’ mouth.

“I love kissing you,” he murmurs, the words vibrating against warm, damp lips. 

“Me too,” says Aramis. “I’m glad you decided we were ready.” 

Lethargic and sleepy gives way to a frantic push for release, and Athos wakes and watches as they rub bodies and kiss each other like mad until it’s over. Once they’re done, Porthos reaches out to draw Athos into the space between them, but he baulks and glares.

“No way, precious,” grins Aramis, catching hold of his hand. “If you want to sleep with us then you have to learn to live with our mess.” He kisses each knuckle in turn. “Now, do you want to stay here, or not?”

Athos nods solemnly, launching himself into the middle of them, and Porthos smiles at the giant leap that’s been taken today. There was a step back along the way, it’s true, but they’ve moved at least three steps forward. He smiles again when he wakes in the night to a mouth fastened at his breast and a softly whispered familial endearment. And again when he hears the clinking of ice in the bucket followed by a splash and an anguished groan of hangover.

Only in their world could these things come together and mean that life is good.


End file.
